


Working Class

by Professor_Fluffy



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M, Pole Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 21:41:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Professor_Fluffy/pseuds/Professor_Fluffy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha helps Steve get a job at a gentlemen's club where he pole dances at night for a certain type of clientele.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Working Class

**Author's Note:**

> This is my piece for the MediaAvengers 2013 Bang
> 
> I worked with the fantastically talented Elizabeth aka [Snowborne](http://snowborne.tumblr.com/) who did this stunning piece to go with the fic:
> 
>  

The first time they’re training together, Natasha has a chance to really watch Steve’s moves. The slow sinuous glide and the control he has over his own body, she quirks an eyebrow and asks if he’s had training as a dancer.

Steve almost misses a step. He recovers quickly, swinging around on the ball of his foot. 

He uses the momentum to sweep Natasha’s legs out from under her. “Never made it to the Stork Club,” he mutters.

“Don’t be coy, Captain. We both know that isn’t what I’m asking,” Natasha says with a vicious right jab. 

“I may have had a few lessons in my day,” Steve taps the mat once and grabs a towel, blotting his face and arms dry. He watches as Natasha shifts from a competitive stance into a series of graceful katas. 

Steve spends his evenings drawing, pencils curving over the sinuous shape of the human form. Anatomy comes to life under his fingers. He longs, more than ever, for the freedom of the campaign -- where certain aspects of civil life are ignored in favor of base human honesty. 

When a man can die anytime, the petty judgments of other people matter far less than they normally would. Here in the future, he still risks his life on a regular basis. But the Avengers aren't on the frontlines, miles from home. Here modern society is sheltered from the consequences of war. He doesn’t want normal companionship while he’s on active duty, he wants someone who’ll understand.

 

He’s been an Avenger for three months when Steve realizes that he’s bored out of his mind. He loves the fighting, and the action. He enjoys movie nights immensely. But his regular workouts are boring and he’s lonely. He sets the snapped pieces of vine charcoal back in his box and calls Natasha. 

**_1941_ **

Steve has all the free time in the world off stage and a body that never tires to match. The girls have adopted him as a bit of a mascot. They leave him gifts when he’s not around to catch them. Small packets of sugar, a jar of cream for his hair, one time there’s even a tiny bunch of grapes. His favorite gift is the shorts -- they barely cover his ass. There’s no way he can wear them out, so he wears them over his leggings. They’re laced up the side in red leather, several tiny cross stitches. 

Steve loses his virginity to five different women backstage after the show. He’s lost in a flutter of gentle hands and warm mouths. They become like sisters to him, teaching him how to use his mouth, how to please a woman, or a man, they’re almost a pack. When he asks, they teach him to dance.

He doesn’t learn the lindy hop, or the fox trot, he’s saving those for Peggy. They teach him a different sort of dance. How to bow his back. How to sway gracefully. How to entice a man with the line of his body. He never has an opportunity to use his newly acquired skills during the war, but they still prove beneficial. He works to improve his flexibility and incorporate the moves into his combat training. He’s more lith, his moves are smoother, his gestures more fluid. 

Eventually, he takes a lover. General James Duffy, an attractive man with soulful dark eyes. Steve visits him on leave. He refines some of the skills he’s never had a chance to put into practice. The general reminds him of Bucky. At this point, he’s on par with the camp followers, and he doesn’t mind, they’re some of the most hardworking people on the front. 

Some of the best people Steve knows are dancers, call girls, and camp followers. 

He falls in with the Howling Commandos and his life becomes a blur. They find themselves stationed in France for several months.

Steve takes a job as a dancer at a high-end gentlemen’s club to keep in form. He enjoys the stretch of the dance, and he can finally wear his tiny little shorts without fear of censure. 

He enjoys the looks, and the indiscriminate tumbles backstage. He writes to Peggy in great detail. 

She sometimes attends the shows in drag, when she’s in France, pressing him against the wall after, her mouth rich with the taste of scotch. He lets her dominate him, and feels alive with her fingers inside him. The boys all call her Sir when she walks in. Sometime Howard Stark trails behind her, a smirk on his lips, and Steve doesn’t blame the man if he disappears with one of the other dancers while Peggy drags him backstage for a slow tumble. 

**_2012_ **

He’s only been awake five months when he seeks Natasha’s assistance to land a position at a lucrative dance club for wealthy clientele. She helps him come up with a temporary hair color wash that makes his hair look just a little darker than Captain America’s.

Natasha teaches him to walk differently, schools him so he picks up an accent that doesn’t scream Brooklyn. By the time she’s done, he can pass as a very good Captain America impersonator. They test the theory at a Captain America lookalike contest. Steve takes second prize.

He asks Clint to give him dancing lessons. He’s never danced on a pole before, but he’s a natural. 

They spend months in an abandoned warehouse in Queens. Clint teaches him how to bend and flex. Natasha shows him how to walk up the bar. The press begins circulating rumors that he and Clint are together. He notices Tony giving him wistful looks when he walks out the door. 

Steve recognizes the longing, he wonders if Tony is in love with Clint. 

Steve’s admirers start sending him flowers, and he takes them home to the tower every night. He gets cards and fan mail addressed to Stephen at the club. Sometimes he even answers them.

Tony begins inviting Clint everywhere. He’s obviously trying to find out what Steve’s up to. The Star headline reads, “Stark sleeps his way through the Avengers.” 

Tony finally sends out a cease and desist letter when someone accuses him of using Pepper as a beard so he can date Clint. Then he spends the next week complaining that he has better taste than that until Clint finally takes umbridge and shoots the coffeemaker. 

Steve becomes the frontliner at his club. He throws himself into the dancing, enjoying the way he’s able to curve his body around the pole, the way the shorts he’s had custom made mimic the old ones, sleek and cool around his hips. 

The news spreads in the underground community that the club has a fantastic Captain America lookalike. They begin doing patriotic themes and calling him Cap backstage. He wears red and white corsets. They cover his body in red, white, and blue stars. One night they mist him with patriotic paint, it’s hell to wash out of his hair. They do a lingerie night. Eventually he finds that he’s happy.

He has several admirers, but he returns the more expensive gifts with polite refusals. 

When he tells Natasha he’s concerned about anonymity, she assures him the club has very strict rules regarding privacy and if anything makes it out, there will be consequences. She also assures him that people see what they want to, and that the minor changes will only serve to prove that Captain America would never have a double life as an exotic dancer. 

When the owner calls Steve into his office and tells him he has a client who wants a private dance from his booth, and maybe a little conversation, Steve hesitates.

He’s fine with the dancing, but he’s not interested in talking. The fee is huge, and he can donate it to the soup kitchen on Reading, so he finally agrees.

“If you’re uncomfortable, you can cut the call. There’s a voice modulator to protect the anonymity of the client.”

He hits the showers first, and changes back into his basic blue panties. He doesn’t spend as long on the rinse, and his hair is probably a little too light, but it shouldn’t matter. A client like this will care just as much about their secrecy as Steve. 

He walks into the room slowly, loose like this is any other work day. 

He powders his hands and slides around the pole in a smooth glide, fingers playing with the curtains around him. He casts a sultry look over one shoulder, toward the dark booth. As he lifts himself off the ground, walking on air, he moves in a controlled slide, bending until his stomach is taut, and he can feel the burning stretch in his calves, he ascends again until his feet touch the pole, and he spreads his legs apart. He does a few twists, dipping to show the definition of his shoulders, the line of his abs, leaping into a slow split turn around the center of the pole, toes pointed out. He comes in, hanging upside down, his legs now twisted so he’s balanced, he smiles.

“You look a lot like him.”The man says. Steve can hear the clink of ice in his drink, fuzzy through the modulator. 

“So I’ve been told.” Steve says, dropping smoothly to his feet.

“No, the way you move…” 

The man sounds amused. 

Steve grabs a bottle of water from the fridge hidden behind one of the curtains, and sits against the pole with his legs splayed.

“Do you go to Juilliard?” the disembodied voice asks, curiously. 

“No.”

“Your name isn’t really Stephan, is it.”

Now Steve’s lips quirk upward. “That’s not very professional.”

“I’m not a professional sort of man. How much do you charge for a night?”

“A night?” Steve pretends to misunderstand.

“I’ll pay you a million dollars for twelve hours.”

“I should walk out of here, right now, give me one reason I shouldn’t call the bouncers,” Steve says, genuinely interested.

The man sounds put apon, “Look, I’m not skeevy. Well, I guess, uh, this is kinda skeevy, So I kind of am. But I haven’t slept with anyone in months, I’m clean. I just kind of had a crush on Captain America when I was a kid. You don’t have to sleep with me. We can have dinner somewhere, watch a movie, you can decide later.”

“You’d give me a million dollars, and you’re giving me the option not to sleep with you?”

“Bring your bodyguards if you like.”

“What if I want to give the money to charity?”

“It would be your money. Is that what you really want to do? Or is that part of the act?” Now the voice is skeptical. 

“And if I want a written contract.” Steve asks, voice cool.

“Mandatory. I’d need you to sign a non-discolsure, so I entirely understand your need to protect your own interests.”

“I want something from you, before I agree.”

“Name it.”

“A kiss.”

“Before I’ve signed anything?”

“I’ll wear a blindfold,” Steve says.

“Unlock the door, and turn around then,” the man says. 

Steve smiles. He pull a length of cloth from the prop chest and unlocks the door.

When he turns around, he hears the man’s cautious tread. A calloused hand takes the cloth, twisting it around his eyes gently. Strong hands guide him around, and he feels lips pressing against his. 

Steve smiles, his hands sliding up, to cup the man’s face. “Then I accept.”

 

He hears the door slide closed, and the modulator reactivate. “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” Steve says. 

By the time Steve’s signed his contract, it's almost 2:00 a.m. He slides out the backdoor, and a strong pair of hands wrapped around his waist from behind.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on me like that, Tony.”

“When did you figure it out?”

“Like the facial hair wouldn’t have given it away.” Steve smirked.

“Come on,” Tony whined,. “I’m not the only guy in New York with a Van Dyke. 

“You always wear the same cologne.” 

Tony huffed out a laugh, “You’d wear it too if you’d paid the amount of money I did.”

“You’re insane.”

Tony smirked. “Do I get a private dance?”

“If you’d like, you did pay a million dollars for the privilege."

Tony smiled. "Should I ask where my money’s going?”

“I was thinking a shelter for cats and dogs, people will freak out when they realize Tony Stark volunteers there.”

“Are you nuts?”

“I believe you gave me an out tonight.” Steve retorts, smirking.

“You’re really going to use it like that?”

“You bet your sweet ass, mister.”

“You really shouldn’t talk like that, it’s driving me insane.”

“You’re right,” Steve said, sliding his hands inside Tony’s leather jacket and under the soft fabric of his tee-shirt. “Less talking.” 

“Did you really have a crush on me as a kid,” Steve asked.

“I’d pop boners in history class.” Tony said sincerely.

“Tony,” Steve laughed, shocked.

Tony’s fingers slid into the pockets of Steve’s trenchcoat. 

Steve pushed him away, but not before Tony’s eyes caught the slightest hint of blue. 

“Oh my god, are those?” Tony’s eyes widened.

Steve flushed.

“They are, you’re wearing those panties under there. That’s all you’re wearing under there...” Tony’s hands began to wander.

“I think you promised me dinner first.”

Tony gaped. 

“Close your yap, fella, I’m hungry.”

“You’re going to make me sit there… while you, while...”

Steve arched an eyebrow.

“This is the best million dollars I’ve ever spent.” Tony said gleefully. “Did you know there was an article published last week, about what a horrible influence you are for small children. Something about your risk taking. If they knew...” 

“I’m Captain America, but I’m also Steve Rogers, and Steve Rogers is entitled to his private life.” Steve said.

“You can dance if you want to…” Tony grinned.

“Keep it up, I’ll order everything on the menu.”

“You’re going to anyway. You can leave your cares behind…” Tony snagged the lapels of his coat again.

“You know,” Steve huffed, for awhile, I thought you were looking at Clint. You could’ve just asked me out. You don’t strike me as the shy type."

Tony stopped, exasperated, it was like something out of Bridget Jones, except Cap was the one in his underwear, and he really didn’t care. He was as poised as ever. And Tony was the one up on his toes, stealing a kiss under the streetlight. “Have you even looked at yourself?” He asked, incredulous.

“Not so bad yourself,” Steve said, smiling broadly.

“Look, you’re like one of those gladiators, back in the day, when a gladiator was really good, they’d put his sweat in a vile and sell it as perfume.”

Steve pulled a face. “That’s kind of disgusting, actually.”

“Yeah it is, and definitely not how I’d spend my time collecting an attractive man’s sweat.”

“Tony!.”

“But you’re like that, you’re just so pretty, but then you love art, and stupid shitty movies, and street fights, I mean really? And then I find out you can pole dance. Where have you been all my life? … Don’t answer that. Wow. I’m sorry.”

“Tony, shut up,” Steve cupped his head lightly in one large hand and kissed him silent. 

People started to watch, and a flashbulb went off nearby. 

When the gossip rags finally ran a story about Steve and Tony dating, it was too outlandish to be taken seriously. 

The couple had been spotted outside a small thai place at three in the morning, Mr. Stark swaying drunkenly from Mr. Roger’s arm, singing ballads. 

They’d stopped when Rogers spotted an abandoned puppy sleeping in a wet box. Our source reports that when Rogers opened his jacket long enough to wrap his shivering bundle, he was wearing nothing but a pair of blue booty shorts and his famous red boots. 

Conflicting reports from our other source reveal that the man seen with Mr. Stark was a highly paid escort from the Blue Star Gentlemen’s club on eights, who just happens to bear a striking resemblance to America’s First Son. 

Was the man they saw even Mr. Stark, and if so, what will the real Captain America say when he finds out his teammate is hiring escorts who could be his doppelganger?

 

Tony squirms into the warmth at his side, the gentle but insistent nibble at his ear. “Mmm, Steve.” He cracks an eye and is greeted by a very happy, very damp golden retriever puppy. “Rogers, I thought I told you not to let the slobber monster sleep on the bed.” 

Steve came out of the bathroom, wrapped in a fluffy green towel. “I set him down for two seconds after his bath, and you slung an arm around him like he was your teddy bear, Stark. Don’t make that face at me." 

“He’s not staying here.”

“Oh? And how are you going to get rid of him? I’ve been reading tabloid reports about an exotic dancer and a puppy all morning, and you’re going to just send someone out of Stark Tower with a golden retriever puppy? I find that hard to believe.”

“Kill me,” Tony mumbled, the sound muffled as he buried his face in his pillow. “You’re not a tactical genius, you’re a menace. Fine, but I’m naming the dog Howard.”

“It’s a female dog, Tony.”

“Exactly.”

Steve frowned. “You do realize Clint will use it as an excuse to call you a son of a bitch every time he sees you.”

“Oh god, I hate you.” 

No you don’t. Now get up, you've only got three hours left to convince me I should give you a private dance on that plane you were telling me about.

“You’re right. I don’t hate you. I think it’s the other thing. The one that starts with an L and ends in a bottle of booze.”

**Author's Note:**

> Some of you may already know this, but the lookalike contest was a reference to Charlie Chaplin who once entered a Charlie Chaplin lookalike contest and took second prize. :P


End file.
